He says madness is getting big in Black America, as popular as ballers and musicians but we don't yet know how to call about it besides Quentin Tarantino and glowing white teeth and you go girl has always been my favorite pet peeve but it gets attention between revenge fantasies and ballet in the morning, classical turmoil, my life in pink and gold. Is it that Italians are better at re-imagining violence as a kind of salvation/glory/great redeemer redentor tour bus mirror and I'm the imaginary penny lane for every madman from poet to jazz head to hip hop edgelessness, and we're that one big modern family story less and land less and sensing one another as bandits were it not for when I ironed your name on my arm. We all have our theories/ equations/ clay radios. Something about the way we come together has falling apart built into it like a mandate, a helpless wake up call. How I'm never afraid to answer.
How all our best songs are about the fathers we never knew. Our imitation blues. That goes for all of us, even you. Must be why they're so easy to lose.
